


the fox and the grapes

by kalypsobean



Category: Hitman (2007)
Genre: F/M, First Dates, Future Fic, Moving On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:39:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>agent 47 assigned himself a new mission: to survive, to adjust, to hide in plain sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fox and the grapes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neery/gifts).



> Happy Holidays to Neery! I hope you like your gift.

"I told you to leave her alone," he says. The body at his feet doesn't respond; he's still good at killing, though it's no longer his sole purpose in life. "You should have listened."

It seems that faking his death was not enough to protect her. It also seems that his demise has not extracted him from the system of politics and favours that keeps everybody afloat merely through their dependency on the system. 

 

Things, it seems, are not easier on the outside. He operates as a ghost, a rumour; he's too obvious to go legit, even as private security, so he pays his way through grunt work and the occasional favour keeps his existence the way he's fashioned it. He leaves a trail just wide enough that she stays safe, for nobody will approach her if the consequences are clearly fatal.

He still checks in on her, every now and then, sometimes more frequently, and sometimes months go by before he passes back through. The vines grow and change colour, and he only notices that it's been a while when the grapes are being picked, though it seems only days since they were twigs as dry as a politician's sense of humour.

He tells himself it would be too dangerous, attract too much attention, if he stayed. Yet, he returns, again and again.

 

It feels strange, at first, when he no longer needs to kill in order to sustain an income. It doesn't make him a good man, or even a righteous one; the changes are more subtle than that. He looks over his shoulder less often, sees fewer shadows; his hair grows in, and it doesn't irritate him when a plan doesn't operate as smoothly as he had anticipated. He is still not sure what he should fill his time with, for there is a lot of it: days when he doesn't sleep, and the nights in between, and the ability to be idle was not one that was beaten into him.

He wonders if the Organization suffered any, from his loss; he doubts it, for if they had they would still seek to recoup it from him, knowing that he would not be taken so easily. They seem to have believed his fiction, which gives him an invested interest in keeping them from suspicion.

He did not account for this life being so complicated.

 

There are many things that they did not teach him, in between hand-to-hand, tactics and countersurveillance.

"I know nothing about wine," he says, adding the right amount of apologetic into his voice. "There's, just, this woman." The cellar door attendant smiles at him; he can tell it's fake, and wonders if Nika knows she's not entirely dedicated to her job.

"In that case, we do have some delightful cabernet gift packs, just over there." She disappears and then there's the sound of a door swinging, just a scrape on cement, then footsteps, three inch block heels, and he has to remind himself that he's only the three weapons and he doesn't need to reach for any of them.

"I see you still know nothing of women," says Nika. 

He sets down the box, one bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon 2010 and two awkwardly shaped glasses, and turns.

"Hello, Nika. I see that your dream suits you," he says, as he evaluates her appearance and demeanour. Her hair is longer, though the dragon is still visible through the wisps that frame her face, and she's put on weight, just enough to show that she's adapted, self-reliant. He doubts anyone else would notice.

Best not to mention it, then.

Her clothes are different, too; she still favours fur, for even here the winters must be cold, but she's dressed for utility and comfort in thick cotton trousers and a satiny blouse beneath the ermine-trimmed quilted jacket. If he had to describe it, he would say she looks more like herself.

He still wears suits, undershirts and an ankle holster, and he does not feel uncomfortable when she looks him over in turn.

 

The silence between them grows long and comfortable.

"I'm retired, sort of," he says.

"That means you can take me out to dinner," she says, her smile fleeting but wide across her face. "But you must not run us out of the restaurant, this time," she says.

"I promise," he says.

"Pick me up at seven o'clock," she says. "I must get back to work now."

 

If she's surprised when he knocks on her door at one minute before seven, she doesn't show it. He's surprised when she steps aside and motions him in; he enters carefully, for though he knows there are two exits and that she has had no contact with anyone of nefarious intent since he told her to go, he is still trained to be cautious, and it's not something he can lightly let go.

Though it is not his first time, he is still somewhat unused to the concept of sexual activity without a motive attached.

"Does this still make you uncomfortable?" she asks, as he lets her back him against the wall. The blades on his back feel solid and cool through his shirt, from the pressure, and he lets them ground him as she touches, presses in close.

"I'm not used to it," he says. And he is uncomfortable, because she can't know how close he's been, this entire time, and they do have reservations; this is not something he planned for.

"You will become used to it," she whispers in his ear; then, she slides her lips across his cheek and onto his. Her tongue presses lightly on his and then she pulls away, leaving him breathless as she sheds her jacket. "You owe me," she says.

"That's not entirely..." he says, but she puts a finger on his lips. 

"You can't say you weren't interested," she says, "because you're here."

She kisses him again and this time he reciprocates; he runs his hands down her body and tugs at the shift dress until it begins to gather in his fingers.

"Dinner first," she says, stepping away and collecting her keys and jacket. 

He follows her out, bemused, and waits as she locks the door. "I hope you chose somewhere nice. I feel like fish."

 

Despite all his training, he is sure he will never fully understand her. He wonders, as she talks about fining agents, whether he should have stayed in the background, in the shadows where he grew up. But she taps his hand and pulls him from his thoughts, and that, also, is not a bad thing.


End file.
